91. XCI.
I EXCHANGE VIEWS WITH GENERAL McCLELLAN.
The commander of the Federal Army was entirely alone, in a
private room. When I was announced, he rose from a table at
which he had been writing, and bowed.
He was a man of thirty-five or forty, of medium height, with
a well-knit frame, and the erect carriage of the West-Pointer.
His countenance was pleasant and attractive, with its frank eyes,
smiling lips, over which fell a brown mustache, and broad, open
brow. General McClellan was evidently a gentleman by birth
and breeding. His smile was cordial, his bearing easy and
natural—his whole appearance calculated to win confidence.
“Major Surry, I believe,” he said, and I bowed.
“Take a seat, Major. I heard of your capture, and that you
belong to General Jackson's staff. He is an old West-Point
friend of mine, and a very great man, too—how is he?”
“Perfectly well, General.”
“And on his way to Harper's Ferry, I suppose.”
The General laughed as he spoke, and seemed to enjoy my
look of surprise.
“What an idea, General!”
“And Longstreet,” continued General McClellan, “he is an
old acquaintance of mine, too. He has gone to Hagerstown?”
I bit my lips. Where did the Federal commander procure
this information?
“Let me see,” he continued, with the air of a man who is
making a calculation. “Jackson ought to be beyond Williamsport
by this time—Longstreet near Hagerstown, and Walker in
position on Loudoun Heights. If McLaws is a pushing man, he
is in possession of Maryland Heights—and Stuart holds Boonsboro'
and Crampton's Gap, to keep me off of Harper's Ferry
until it falls.”
I listened with a sort of stupefaction. General McClellan
was describing, with perfect accuracy and entire nonchalance,
General Lee's entire programme, as set forth in confidential
orders to his corps commanders. The enemy knew all.
“You do not reply, Major,” said General McClellan.
“It is not my affair,” I replied, with a gloom and sullenness
which I could not control.
“But is my information accurate?”
“Ask some one else, sir!”
General McClellan dropped his tone of banter, and said
courteously:
“I do not desire to extract any information from you, Major,
and it would be useless. The carelessness of one of your generals
has put me in possession of General Lee's entire plan of
campaign, and I play the game from this moment with a full
knowledge of my adversary's designs. Look, Major.”
And, taking from the table a paper, he handed it to me.
It was General Lee's confidential order of march for the
different columns of his army! The copy of the order was
directed to General D. H. Hill, and had been left by him, or
some one of his command, at Frederick City.”[1]
“It is useless to deny the authenticity of this paper, General,”
I said, after glaucing at it, “and it gives you a fatal advantage.”
General McClellan stretched himself in his chair. with the air
of a man who wishes to talk, and said philosophically:
“There are very few `fatal advantages' in war, Major—and I
assure you that, with adversaries like Lee and Jackson, nothing
in the future ever seems certain to me. I ought to whip Lee,
holding as I do that chart of his designs—but will I?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
“Ah! you are recovering your good humor,” laughed the
General. “Well, I don't know what the result will be, but I
shall lose no time. Jackson is detached, and I shall probably
attack General Lee before he comes up.”
“He almost always arrives in time, General.”
“As at Cold Harbor,” was the cool response. “That was a
movement worthy of Lee's brain and Jackson's arm. My dear
Major, I begin to think that we have got the sound principles,
and you the great men.”
I smiled—for there was something in the frank voice of the
General which produced good humor.
“Do you know, General, that you are challenging me to an
argument on the virtue or wickedness of secession.
“Not at all, not at all. I really never annoy myself with these
abstractions. I am a mere fighting man, you perceive, Major,
and follow my flag.”
“And we follow ours, General.”
“Very well; and I suppose we will have to fight it out. But
I trust we shall do so like civilized people and gentlemen. I intend
to break down the military strength of the Southern Confederacy,
if I can, and overthrow the whole political fabric with
the bayonet and cannon. But, I will not adopt for my motto,
Voe rictis, and, now or hereafter, make war upon non-combatants.”
“What of the negroes—do you approve of emancipating and
arming them?”
“I am a soldier, Major, and rarely indulge in the luxury of an
opinion,” laughed the General. “Let the political errors of the
Administration be righted at the ballot-box.”[2]
“And when we are conquered—for you are sure of the result,
are you not, General?”
“I think that will be the finale in the long run. The North is
rich, persevering, and more populous than the South.”
“What would you do with the rebels, in that unfortunate
event?”
“I would proclaim universal amnesty, and say to the people
of the South, `We have fought hard, let us be friends again.' ”
“Your views at least are liberal, whatever may be the result.”
“They are rational, Major. The statesman who cannot look
beyond the petty hatreds and rivalries of the present is a ninny.
Suppose the Confederacy is overthrown, and the Southern States
accept in good faith the result, as a fair decision after a fair
fight; suppose they return to the Union, and honestly take the
oath of allegiance; is it good sense or puerile blundering—which
—to insist upon treating a great, proud nation as a conquered
race? It is the civilians who have never smelt gunpowder that
believe the South won't fight if she's trodden on. The choice
will be between smouldering, eternal, watchful hate, ready to
break out in armed revolution again, or an open, frank, and
honest union between the South and the North—the herald of
greater prosperity and power for all the nation than before. That
union will take place, that prosperity be seen in our day. All that
is needed is to sweep away the buzzing and stinging insects of
the moment, and the new era will commence in all its glory.”
General McClellan spoke with animation, and his frank face
was turned full upon me. Then, as he caught my eye, he smiled.
“I understand your look, Major,” he said; “you think I am
counting the Federal chickens before they are hatched, and forecasting
events which will never take place. Well and good—
we think differently. We are going to beat you by numbers—
forewarned, forearmed. Now let us talk of Jackson. What a
surprising career! We thought nothing of him at West Point,
and here he is taking the wind out of all our sails. Were you
with him in his Valley campaign?”
“Throughout, General.”
“That campaign surpasses every thing else in the war.”
And the conversation turned upon other acquaintances of the
General in the Southern army, about whom he seemed to have
much curiosity.
The interview lasted until nine or ten o'clock, the General
dispatching such business as came before him with rapidity and
decision. I could only ascertain that his forces were pressing
forward toward Boonsboro' and Crampton's Gap, and that he intended,
if possible, to bring General Lee to an engagement before
he was re-enforced by Jackson.
When I parted with the General, he frankly held out his hand
and said:
“We are soldiers, Major, and can shake hands on the eve of
battle. I regret your capture, but will see that you are subjected
to no annoyance. When you see Jackson, present my
respects to him, and tell him that I hope to meet him at Philippi.”
“I will do so, General. But take care—his embrace is fatal!”
“We will see,” was the smiling reply; and so we parted.
